


Three Words

by TheLocket



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Brainwashing, Feels, Love, M/M, Memory, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLocket/pseuds/TheLocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Banner is trying to undo whatever brainwashing HYDRA did to the man that once was Bucky Barnes. But as the memories start to come back, Bucky begins to realize that he can't trust anything, not even the sudden feelings he's having for his old best friend.</p><p>(Cap 2 spoilers, Stucky, and some adult language.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doctors and their Toys

            "Just try to stay calm," Bruce Banner says. In response, from under all the restraints and medical equipment, Bucky snorts.

            "You're one to talk," he replies, tersely. It comes out garbled. He can't open his mouth too wide, what with the harness holding his jaw in place.

            Bruce gives him an even look. He knows, Bucky is sure, that his rudeness is a coping mechanism. And that Bucky would apologize, but right now he's focusing on lowering his heartbeat. It's registering on the machine behind him, an erratic beeping. His one hand makes a fist, straining against the restraints. It makes him feel uneven, only having one arm. But the treatment has unforeseeable side effects, and he doesn't want to break anything — or anyone — else.

            "I bet this isn't how you planned to spend your Saturday, Doc," Bucky says, and it sounds almost hysterical.

            "Not quite," Dr. Banner mutters.

            "How's it going in here?" calls a voice from the hallway. Tony Stark strides into the room, a donut in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

            Bucky flinches and he knows that the EEG machine is going to register that, knows his medial temporal lobe is probably lighting up —

            "Like a Christmas tree," Stark says in amazement. "Just, fascinating, look at that right there..."

            Bucky rolls his eyes. Now that he's intent on hiding something, he can control his breathing. Funny — when he's panicking, remembering the apparatus that brainwashed him, he can't for the life of him keep his pulse down. But now, instinctively lying, he is in full control. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. More evidence that he's innately evil, he finds himself thinking, with another jolt to his stomach.

            "Tony, not know," Bruce says, sounding distracted.

            "I wanted to see how the impulse ratings are," Tony says, fiddling with the apparatus surrounding Bucky's head. "Make sure that the readings are steady and..."

            "I've got it under control," Bruce says.

            Tony looks offended and Bucky holds his breath, wondering if Bruce’s strategy will work to get rid of Tony.

            "Fine," Tony says. He stares at Bucky, then at Bruce. Then he takes a large bite of his donut and sweeps out of the room.

            Bruce sighs.

            "Do I want to ask?" he says.

            Bucky knows what he's referring to: what memory Anthony Stark is unearthing in his fucked up brain.

            "No, you don't," he replies. And then he sighs.

            "Look, James, I have to." Bruce pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. "As much as I hate to admit it... we're going to have to..."

            He sighs deeply, huffing out enough air that Bucky feels it against his face.

            "Dammit," Bruce adds.

            "What is it, Banner?" Bucky asks, and he hears his heartbeat increase again.

            "... I really don't have the temperament for this..." Bruce mutters.

 

*          *          *

 

            After Bucky tells Bruce the story about how he's fairly certain he killed Howard and Maria Stark, he hopes that's it. That's the gotten over the worst of it, that he won't have to tell his pseudo-therapist anything worse than that. The next time they meet, Bruce still can't look him in the eye, and all his questions are terse.

            He has a new list, on a clipboard, all medical-looking. Bucky learns them, memorizes them: _how is your appetite? How are you sleeping? Are you drinking alcohol? Have you had any intimate relations? What are your dreams like? Can you describe an average day?_

            And Bucky lies, mostly. He knows how to pretend to sound functional, to pass the tests to get back in the field. So for the first month of treatment, he pretends to be normal and lets Dr. Banner electrify different portions of his brain in an effort to stimulate memories. For the most part, it doesn't work. He wants all of his brain back in one piece, but instead he gets random flashes of assassinations while trying to eat breakfast or brief glimpses tortures when he tries to work out.

            So they keep him in his cell — they call it his room, but everyone knows he isn't really free to leave when he wants to. Natasha's mandated a tracker anklet, and he's pretty sure her boyfriend is tailing him, even though they've never even met. So, for the most part, he stays in.

 

*          *          *

 

            He's been at Stark Towers for six weeks on the dot when Steve Rogers knocks on his door.

            "Hey," he says quietly. "Mind if I...?" He gestures towards the door frame and Bucky wonders that if he denies him access he won't be physically able to cross the threshold, like some star-spangled vampire.

            "Sure," he grunts in reply, trying to crush his impulse to keep Steve Rogers far, far away from him. It's such an intense feeling, almost a fight-or-flight response, a voice in his head that says, you are going to hurt him if you're near him. Stay far, far away from him. Protect Steve Rogers at all costs. Protect him from yourself.

            His hand feels empty, so he fills it with a glass. And the glass feels empty, so he fills that with vodka. Steve points a hesitant finger at his drink and barks out a short laugh.

            "What?" Bucky asks, his voice too gruff. Protect him from yourself, the voice says.

            "You... you were always a whiskey sort of fella," Steve says with a wry smile. "Hated that stuff."

            Bucky downs the glass and stares back at Captain America. The smile seems to fade and is replaced by a forced expression, lips pressed together and turned up unnaturally.

            "I just wanted to check on you, Bu-... James," he says, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. "Dr. Banner said you might be doing better."

            "Did he," Bucky grunts. If he did, it would be a blatant lie. There's been no progress. Half of what he remembers doesn't feel like him, and it's still shards. He never knows if he's remembering things that actually happened or that the machine made him think he experienced. There was a day where he only spoke Russian, only knew how to speak Russian. That threw Bruce for a loop, which would have been amusing if it weren't so damn scary to realize that he had forgotten his mother tongue.

            "Look," Steve says. "I know you aren't back to... you... again. And I realize you may never be. But I just wanted to say... it's okay. I'm still here for you, Buck."

            The name slips out and he catches himself. He takes a long moment to collect himself, staring down at the ground as he does so.

            "Till the end of the line?" Bucky supplies, his voice still rough.

            Steve looks up with a sad smile.

            "Exactly," he says.

            "That's a promise you made to someone else, Captain Rogers," he says. He means it to sound rude, and it does. Steve may not be forcing a smile anymore, but he doesn't look away. His blue eyes are strangely penetrating, making Bucky feel suddenly naked.

            He fixes this by pouring himself another few fingers of vodka and downing it.

            "I know you think you're not him," Steve says, "but I know my friend is in there somewhere."

            Friend. The word doesn't nearly cover what Bucky feels like he should be feeling toward Steve, or what he is feeling toward Steve. He rubs at his temple. And pours himself another drink.

            "You shouldn't be drinking," Steve adds.

            "Are you going to stop me?" Bucky asks, spitting the words at him. Steve recoils, taking a full step backwards.

            "Guess not," Bucky adds, glaring at him.

            "Buck..."

            Steve sighs and heads for the door.

            "I'll check back, okay?"

            "In another six weeks?" grumbles Bucky. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.

            Steve looks surprised.

            "Did you want me to visit sooner?" he asks quickly.

            "No, of course not," Bucky lies. He's making good progress on this bottle of vodka. He doesn't mention that he dreams about Steve more when he sees him, or when Bruce mentions him. Those are the only memories that don't hurt, that don't make him wake up screaming. He doesn't mention that he wants to see Steve so he can remember something that doesn't make him hate himself.

            "Well, I will," Steve says, and by the way he sets his jaw Bucky can tell that he means it.

            "Sure you will," he snarks, though. More vodka, that's the answer to all this.

            Steve looks like he's going to say something, but his Stark comm buzzes and he leaves without even saying goodbye.

 

*          *          *

 

            It's hard to walk down to the elevator, and harder still to figure out which button will take him to Bruce's lab. Bucky is _drunk_. He hates it, hates the way he feels out of control. But he knows how disappointed Steve feels now, how he pushed him away, and part of him is twistedly proud of it. And now he gets to do the same with Dr. Banner. All-in-all, a very good Tuesday. Alienating two of the two friends he's made. He's the Winter Soldier. He has good percentages, good stats. He's perfect on paper. It's just his brain and body and heart that are fucked up.

            When he sits down in the chair apparatus and the doctor straps him in, he even manages a grin and a saucy wink.

            "Having a nice evening, right, Doc?" he asks.

            Bruce glares at him and starts on the same questions, bored.

            "How is your appetite?" he asks.

            "Same old, same old."

            Bruce checks off a box.

            "How are you sleeping?"

            Bucky stops to think. He got maybe two hours last night, between the nightmares of torturing some brunette and that same haunting image of the Stark car crash.

            "Like a baby," he lies evenly. His words are slurred.

            "Have you been drinking alcohol?" Bruce asks.

            "No sir," Bucky lies, grinning broadly. Bruce stares back at him flatly, and he's sure that one isn't going to work, considering he's sure he smells like a bar at this point.

            "Having any sexual relations?"

            Bucky tries to speak and hiccups instead. This throws him. It gives him another moment to think, and that second throws him.

            "Wish I were," he says before he can stop himself.

            "With anyone in particular?" Bruce asks. He sounds like he would really, really not like the truth. This, perversely, makes Bucky want to tell it to him.

            "That Captain America," he says with a broad smile.

            Bruce rolls his eyes.

            "Fury really owes me for this one," he gripes, firing up the machine. "Now, James, try to stay calm..."

            As usual, as the machine fires up, Bucky blacks out. And luckily for him, the next morning he doesn't remember too much of their conversation.

 

*          *          *

 

            The next afternoon, Bucky runs into Bruce in the Level 4 kitchen. He has a bowl of cereal and Bruce has a celery stick. The doctor grunts a greeting. But Bucky just stares at him.

            "What?" Bruce asks.

            "Last night..." he begins.

            "Yeah?"

            "Did I say anything about... Captain Rogers...?"

            Bruce coughs and Bucky wonders if it's covering a laugh.

            "I want you to ask me about that," Bucky presses.

            "What?"

            "When I'm under," he continues. "I want you to figure out what's in my brain. It's like... it's like programming. And I want to know why."

            In his head he adds, So I don't hurt him. But he doesn't say anything.

            Bruce looks at him evenly and takes a bite out of his celery stick like a Saturday morning cartoon.

            "Alright," he says finally, sighing again.

 

*          *          *

 

            When Bucky comes to after the next session, he's sure of one thing.

            "I love him," he blurts out. He's out of breath, sweating and dizzy from the electric jolts through his brain, but he's sure of this. "I'm in love with Steve Rogers."

            He laughs a bit, a heady noise. It's a strange feeling on his face, so unfamiliar that he has to check with his fingertips — he's smiling.

            It all makes sense, all the dreams, the way he remembers feeling around him, the way he wants to feel around him. The way he is the only person that's ever jolted his memories, the only target he ever failed to kill.

            He's grinning as he realizes this, a stuttering grin but a grin nonetheless.

            But Bruce is not smiling.

            "Look, James," he says evenly. "You aren't."

            "I am," Bucky presses. "I'm in love with him, I know it, Doc."

            Bruce swallows, a big gulp, and wets his lips.

            "No, you aren't," he says again. "It's just... a part of your programming."

            "I need to tell him," Bucky says, struggling with the restraints holding his lower body to the chair. He doesn't know why, doesn't understand how he's feeling this way, but he doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to ever stop feeling this way. He knows exactly what he's doing and who he is and where he's going and —

            A heavy hand on his chest presses him back.

            "What are you doing?" he snaps, struggling against Bruce's gentle hand.

            "You can't tell him, James," he says. "This is a part of your programming. The programming that... that we're undoing."

            "What are you saying?"

            "It's some sort of... by-product. What I'm trying to do here is unravel all that programming, distinguish the lies that HYRDA fed you from the truth. We're making good progress and if we continue with daily sessions..."

            Bruce gently removes the rest of his restraints. Bucky isn't fighting him anymore.

            "I won't love him anymore," Bucky finishes hollowly.

            "In another couple weeks, you won't have these... feelings... toward Steve. And it would kill him. Destroy him. He really cares about you."

            Bucky grips the armrest with his fingernails as if he can break it. The rush of happiness, the heady, crazy feeling of knowing that he loved Steve is fading. It's like coming down from a high, and everything suddenly feels too real around him.

            "You don't want to do that to him," Bruce adds. "He's been through enough..."

 


	2. Baseball

            Bucky tries to avoid Steve for the next few days. It's funny, because for six months they barely saw each other and now he's everywhere, bumping into him at the gym, in the elevator, in the men's room on Level 6.

            Bruce's words: _He's been through enough..._

            So Bucky makes a point of taking his time at the sink. He's washing his hands for a third time when Steve comes up next to him.

            He knows he should run, should leave. But something makes him stay. Washing a metal arm. It's ridiculous, and painful. He's wearing down the skin on his real hand. He thinks of more pleasurable ways to accomplish this same end... and sets the water to cold, full-blast.

            "Hey," Steve says, locking eyes with him in the mirror. His expression, as always, is careful. Like Bucky is made of glass and if he looks at him wrong, he'll splinter into a million pieces. Which, strangely enough, is how Bucky feels sometimes.

            "Hi," he says gruffly.

            _"You've got to keep your knees bent Steve, kay? Lean over the plate, elbows like this..."_

         _"I dunno, Buck, I've never much had of a knack for any sports."_

            _"Shut up, you punk. Baseball's not a sport — it's a lifestyle."_

            _"I guess..."_

            _"I'll take you to a Dodgers game, how 'bout that?"_

            _"That sounds nice, Buck, but I really don't have the money..."_

            _"My treat. It's a different world, Steve, you'll love it."_

            Bucky rubs at his eyes.

            "You alright?" Steve asks, staring at him in the middle, and Bucky's heart feels strange, like someone's reached through his ribcage and is grabbing it. It's hard to breathe and he reaches to steady himself on the sink, forgetting his metal arm.

            Of course, the porcelain shatters after a few moments.

            "Buck..." Steve is by his side, gently removing him, and Bucky feels himself slump into Steve's arms.

            He doesn't realize they're hugging until it's too late and his brain panics, realizing just how easy it would be to reach out and crush his neck.

            Alexander Pierce's voice: _"The situation has escalated. We need you to eliminate two agents..."_

            And then Steve's voice: _"So those are the outfielders and that fella he's..."_

            And his own voice, echoing in his head: _"Umpire, see? 'Cause he makes all the calls. And the shortstop, that's that one right there..."_

            He doesn't want to stop hugging Steve, because the more he hugs him, the more that he hears his own voice in his head, hears the voice of Bucky Barnes.

            Steve's hand is at his head, hesitantly, and then sort of stroking his hair like he's a cat. It's weird and they both realize it at the same time, so he draws back.

            "Sorry," he barks out, and he's not sure if he's crying but he has the distinct feeling that his face is leaking. "Cognitive recalibration," he mutters. "Emotional side-effects..."

            He feels his lips twitch in a half-hearted smile and he adds: "I guess I am pretty fucked up, huh."

            Steve's eyes are guarded, careful. But he doesn't look scared.

            "Let's get a bite to eat," he offers. "There's this great place down on seventh..."

            Bucky shakes his head before he can say otherwise. That weird feeling in his chest has died down and he can finally breathe. And think logically.

            "Nah, I should..." He gestures towards the door. "Not quite ready to be released on the world, y'know?"

            "I'll go with you," Steve promises.

            "Nah..." He's running out of excuses. So he taps at his head. "Still... loose cogs and all..."

            And he makes himself run away, lock himself in his room, and lie down on his bed. That night he dreams about the Dodgers game, and wakes up singing that song from the seventh inning and tasting the crackerjacks.

            He brushes his teeth three times before going to meet with Bruce.

 

*          *          *

 

            Bruce is, as per usual, annoyed.

            "What are you humming?" he asks as he switches on the machine.

            "That song from baseball..."

            "Take me out to the ballgame?" Bruce supplies.

            "Yeah, do they still play that?"

            "You'd have better luck asking Steve," Bruce replies. "I've never been to a game, at least I haven't made it past the first inning. No patience."

            Bruce consults the EEG machine. He sighs, and adds, "Still having those thoughts about Steve?"

            Bucky doesn't know how to explain that they're much more than just thoughts: it's like his whole self changes. Like he can feel the edges of his body and all of it feels like him, feels right.

            "Don't worry," Bruce continues. "We'll get rid of them soon enough."

            "Rid of what?" comes a voice. Bucky hears the EKG uptick and it confirms what he hasn't consciously realized: it's Steve.

            "Hey," Bruce says innocently, and Bucky realizes that the doctor is a better liar than he gives him credit for.

            "How are you doing?" Steve asks, striding over to Bucky. He feels himself inclining his body as if to hide the empty space on his left side. Another stupid impulse, a wave of emotion. Is he embarrassed?

            "You worried me, yesterday," Steve continues. "I just wanted to see if you're... doing any better?"

           _"Steve, I swear, if you aren't better by tomorrow, I'm calling a doctor."_

            _"Shut up, Buck, I'm fine..."_

            _"You've been puking your guts out since Tuesday. Not to be an asshole, but either you are an idiot or you are in denial."_

            _"I'd chose idiot."_

            _"Not your choice... you idiot."_   

            _"Buck..."_

            _"Shut up, idiot, you have to drink this. Ma always said vinegar and apple juice..."_

            _"Buck...Thank you."_

            _"If you try to thank me one more time, I swear I'll box your ears. Acting like a dying man. Ridiculous. I'll have you right by the morning, just you see."_

            _"Yes sir."_

            _"That's more like it..."_

            Bucky makes a point of looking away from Steve, looking away from those too-blue eyes.

            "I think you should leave," he says. "Dr. Banner's going to fire up the machine..."

            "No," Bruce cuts in. He's staring at the machine, his brows knit, his voice distant. "I think he should stay."

 

*          *          *

 

            As the machine fires up, Bucky tries to cling to consciousness. He fights, because he doesn't want to go blabbing about his stupid little fantasies about Steve, the ones he's been using to help fall asleep at night. Steve, rescuing him from a burning building. Steve, taking him to get frozen yogurt. And then some not-so-innocent ones, ones that make him flush just at the idea...

            But the electric current through his already fried brain is too much.

 

*          *          *

 

            When he comes to, he knows it's something bad. Steve looks crushed, eyes red-rimmed, a vein popping out of his temple, his mouth hanging somewhat open. At Bucky's look he shuts it, gulping a bit. And then grinds his teeth together.

            "I need some air," he growls out, and sweeps quickly out of the room. Bucky glances over to the doctor, who also looks almost nauseous.

            "What did I do?" he asks. His voice comes out empty, broken. Like he feels.

            Bruce swallows.

            "You don't remember?"

            Bucky shakes his head against the restraints.

            "Perhaps it's best if you don't..."

 

*          *          *

 

            There was a time that Bucky was damn persuasive, when he lick his lips, slide his eyes over someone, and he could get his way. Now, missing an arm, his hair all scraggly and unwashed, unshaven and unwashed... that isn't the case.

            So he has to beg.

            "Talia, please."

            "For the last time, I go by Natasha now."

            He grinds his teeth.

            "Fine, Tasha. Please."

            She looks the same, the same as she does in the brief flashes of memory. The same beauty and the same pain. The same form-hugging black leather, the same sharp eyes and sharp tone. But he doesn't care. He needs to know what he said that made Steve so...

            "Fine," she snaps. "But only because..."

            She doesn't give a reason. There are so many gaps in his memories, holes, that he's getting used to just not having the whole picture. He doesn't care anymore.

            "So we're even now," he guesses.

            "Yes," she hisses.

            "Is there a problem here?" comes a voice.

            "Clint, I presume?" Bucky asks, and he feels that perverseness uncoil in his stomach. He enjoys being unpleasant, enjoys flashing this man a cold grin.

            "Doesn't matter to you," the man barks back. "Unless there's a problem here."

            "Calm down, Clint," Natasha mutters. She slides the surveillance tape over to Bucky. "Hope this doesn't fuck you up anymore than you already are..."

            "Not possible," Bucky replies darkly, honestly for once.

            He leaves without another word. Back at his room, he boots up his laptop, and listens to what he said.

 

*          *          *

 

_"You think I care? Shut up. Begging... begging won't make a fucking difference. Stop it. I said stop it. Just tell me. Tell me the codes, all six digits, don't think you can fucking trick me... I said stop it. Stop it! I... ... Sorry sir, I know you wanted to keep her for more intel, but... She wouldn't stop. She wouldn't stop begging. Yes of course. I'll dispose of the body. Sorry sir, but I told you... I'm just not very good with kids."_

 

*          *          *

 

            "I need a new computer monitor," Bucky says, tossing the shattered one onto the desk in front of Tony.

            The other man glances up, pursing his lips.

            "You realize that technology costs money, right?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "What did you do to it? Punch it?"

            "Metal arm," Bucky barks out. "Malfunctioned."

            "Huh. Want me to take a look at it?" Tony asks.

            "No," Bucky says, too fast and too forcefully. Tony has had eyes for his metal arm ever since Steve found him in Bogotá and he knows what Tony wants to do: weaponize it, make it better, stronger, faster. Everything that he doesn't need right now.

            Suddenly his mind is doing math: 60 miles per hour, five gallons of fuel, six miles of road,  horizontal spiral curve, maximum force due to friction of tires...

            "What's got your boxers in a bunch?" Tony asks. Bucky can tell that he's gone pale, whiter than a sheet, he can feel it in his face.

            "I..." I was just plotting how to murder your parents, he wants to say. Plotting the way I did, before I did murder your parents.

            "Don't bother fixing it," he says quickly.

            "What does that mean?" Tony asks.

            Even Bucky doesn't know.

 

*          *          *

 

            Steve finds him in the weight room, where he's doing pull-ups with his one arm.

            "Hi James," he says easily, and Bucky feels the pit fall out of his stomach. He has to drop down to the ground, and not too soon, because suddenly his mind is swimming in memories.

_"Don't you dare, Buck, I'll hurl!"_

            _"C'mon, Steve, it'll be fun. Just one go, I've got the ticket and spoken to the..."_

            _"No way! I get dizzy just going up the stairs, there's no way I'll..."_

            _"C'mon... Don't trust your best friend? I'll even hold your hand through it. Why come to Coney Island if you don't want to ride the Cyclone?"_

           _"I hate you sometimes..."_

            _"Yeah, yeah, I'm a total asshole. Does that mean you'll ride it?"_

            _"Fine... asshole."_

            Bucky rubs at his temple again.

            "Hi," he says, wondering if too much time has passed to say it.

            "Sorry about... the other day," Steve says, awkwardly. he links his hands, interlacing his fingers, and then tears them apart. A nervous habit.

            "It's fine," Bucky replies coldly.

            "I... I was wondering, could you spot me?" he tries.

            "Thought you were a supersoldier," Bucky replies, resuming his pull-ups. He hefts himself upwards and stares down at Steve.

            "Yeah," he allows. "But I mean, safety first."

            Bucky snorts.

            "Such a boyscout," he grumbles. "Fine, where would you like me?"

            To his surprise, Steve colors.

            "Uh, bench press?" he squeaks out.

 

*          *          *

 

            After a few reps, Steve acts like he's exhausted. Bucky knows he isn't — he's barely sweating, barely flushed — but he plays along.

            "Let's get a snack," Steve suggests, and they head to the kitchens together.

            The elevator ride is silent, Steve clasping forearms like he's a soldier in a line-up.

            "Just ask me, Rogers," Bucky growls out.

            "What?"

            "Whatever's on your mind. Just ask it. I'll be straight with you." He says it and then realizes that he doesn't want to be straight with Steve, not in that sense. Damn brainwashing, but he wants to be really not-straight with Steve right now. Of course that would be his side-effect, having homosexual feelings for Captain America. It almost makes him laugh.

            Steve hesitates, and seems to be weighing the words as he walks to the kitchens and pulls out an orange. He chews on a slice while he thinks, choosing his words carefully..

            The juice drips down his chin and he wipes it away, impatiently...

            _"Where'd you get these, anyway?"_

            _"Nicked 'em."_

            _"Bucky!"_

            _"What, you were starting to get scurvy. Anyway, I like fruits."_

            _"Sure you do, Buck... just..."_

           _"What?"_

            _"Just don't do it again, 'kay? I'm not worth it."_

            _"Not worth a couple of oranges?"_

            _"Not worth stealing for, Buck. A little bit of fruit isn't going to make me better..."_

            "James?"

            'What?" He snaps back to reality, harshly. Those same blue-blue eyes.

            "I said, is that alright?'

            "Can you... start from the beginning?"

            Steve sighs and ruffles his hair tiredly.

            "When we picked you up... you said you didn't want to be called Bucky. And it's been a few months now, so I was wondering if maybe I could... call you Bucky."

            Bucky, for once, feels like Bucky. His stomach does somersaults at Steve's face, at his crinkled brow, at that angelic look on his face.

            "No," he hears himself saying. "I'm... I'm still not..."

            Steve sighs and leans back.

            "Sorry," he murmurs. "I'm... pushing you. It's just, sometimes, I swear, you look at me like he used to."

            "What does that mean?" Bucky asks, too quickly, too intensely.

            "Nothing Bu-James," Steve says quickly, resting a hand on his shoulder to settle him. It has the opposite effect.

            Steve is almost out the door when he exhales and for just one second relaxes.

            "Thanks," he hears himself murmur.

            Steve turns and offers him the sweetest smile, a look that he's sure is actually causing physical damage to his heart. A cardiac arrest. Minor infraction. Something, something bad that feels really, really good.


	3. Timing

            The next morning he crashes into Steve in the hallway, a head-on collision. As he draws back, he notices...

            "Whoah Rogers," comes Tony's sassy retort. "Please tell me that's tomato sauce..."

            It's not, Bucky can tell. Steve is sticky all over with red, red blood.

            "Don't worry, it's not mine," he says easily. "Ran into a few Hydra agents and..."

            Bucky stumbles, his mind spinning with another one of those stupid memories, but it's not just voices this time and he feels himself crumple to the floor as he loses consciousness. He knows he's clinging to Steve, digging his fingernails deep into his blood-soaked shirt, in an attempt to stay with him, concerned, because it's never that simple, no op is, and even if he's Captain America he needs someone to watch out for him, to protect him... but the memory's too strong.

 

*          *          *

 

     _You look damn fine, Barnes, he thinks as he glances in the mirror and his face smiles back. Clean-shaven, hair brushed back, gelled. A clean shirt, even._

            _"Stupid," he mutters to himself. Which it is: Steve has seen him muddied from football, sweaty from baseball, by the river in much less clothing... but this is different. It's been different for a few months now._

            _"Steve," he practices, looking intently at his reflection. "Damn, this is harder than I thought. It's... Steve..." he starts again. "When Vanessa Reeves from down the block asked me to that dance, I know you always wondered why I said no... no, that's stupid, Barnes, get it together."_

            _He sighs._

            _"Look, Steve, when I said till the end of the line, I meant it. But for me, I think that track might be a little different than it is for you... and God, Steve, this is killing me, but, I just need to know. Need to know if you feel the same way..."_

            _He sighs to himself and goes to the door. He's going to do it, going to say it..._

            _But on his way out, a small white envelope catches his eye. The black seal looks unthreatening enough, but then he opens it._

            _And reads: Order to Report for Induction. And that's his name on the line. For a moment, nothing matters except those words, that little line of black text. It's all there is._

            _His fist crumples it into a ball, but it doesn't go away, doesn't disappear like he wishes it would. His hands feel dirty with it, like the words are now branded onto him. He knew this day was coming. But not today, any day but today._

           _"Hey, Buck, what's up?" Steve asks, appearing at his door. Early, as always._

_He tries a smile, but his face just won't listen._

_"Buck?"_

_He stares down at his hands, thinking, but I love him. But I love him._

_"Nothing, Steve..."_

 

*          *          *

 

            He gasps as he returns to the real world, and it's his name that's on his lips: "Steve!"

            "Nope, just me," he hears Tony say. "Steve went to go get Bruce... something about your cogs?"

            He's holding Bucky up in a sort of awkward embrace.

            "Look, buddy, I'm not your biggest fan or anything, but please don't die on me..."

            "Are you begging me?" Bucky asks. The words leave his lips before he knows what he's saying, and he hears how cold they sound, feels the way a scowl twists his face.

            "What?" Tony is confused. "Uh... you sound... like a crazy-person. Just... just hold on a sec, I'm not very good with..."

            "Stark," Bucky feels himself bark out. "Mercedes-Benz. Roosevelt Highway, speeds of 60 mph’s..."

            He feels himself losing consciousness, but Tony shakes him.

            "What are you talking about," he snaps, all the mirth draining from his face. His face goes white, Bucky can almost see the blood draining. He fights the urge to laugh.

            "They begged," he hears himself saying, saying in that cold voice of his.

            "Stop it!" Tony yells, gripping him around the neck. "You're — you — what are you even?!"

            Bucky wants to apologize, to explain, to... something. But the blackness is calling.

 

*          *          *

 

           _"Make it look like a car crash," they tell him. "Stark has become a problem. Asking too many questions back at HQ."_

            _"Collateral damage?" Bucky hears himself asking._

            _"I suppose that wife of his might be in the car... and his son as well. I trust you'll make the right call."_

        _"No loose ends, sir."_

_"Of course. You're proven yourself an invaluable asset over the years. I'm sure you'll do what's necessary."_

      _"Yes sir."_

            _He sees his hands, reaching into the engine. Pulling at the wires, placing new wires. It doesn't make sense, the mechanics of it all, but he knows what he's doing. And it feels real. Like it's happening right now, but he can't stop. He's going to kill them, kill them over and over again. Forever, this one memory. He can't escape._

     _And he goes to watch, like a good Winter Soldier. Make sure the mission is completed._

        _The fire is hot — he can tell by the crackling noise, but the smoke, by the way it distorts the air around it like a bent pane of glass. And he can hear the screaming. The man, he died on impact. But the woman, she's still screaming._

            _"Please! Please, help me!"_

            _He doesn't like when people beg. His arm twitches, and he knows just the amount of force he'll need to make her stop screaming._

            _And he's walking over, he knows he is. He isn't telling his legs to move, but they are. He wants to scream at himself: NO. No, no I won't complete this mission. She wasn't even the mission. Collateral damage. He draws air into his lungs to scream to yell —_

 

*          *          *

 

            "No!" he yells, jerking forward. He feels the ties around his arm, around his midsection, but his metal arm is free and he reaches out with it, finding anyone to hit.

            "Calm down!" a voice yells and his blurry vision seems to focus on one figure: Bruce Banner. He wonders who he hit.

            "What's happening?" he finds himself asking, sobbing. And then, strangely, anger again: "Don't you dare! No, I won't, not again!"

            "Bucky, James... please," Steve is at his arm, clinging to him.

            "He murdered my parents!" he hears Stark yelling from the far wall, and his own employees are restraining him. So that's who he hit.

            "Tony, calm down!" Bruce yells back.

            "Don't tell me to calm down, he murdered my parents!"

            "Well," Bruce bellows, "he can't un-murder them, so just calm the fuck down!"

            At this, Bruce reaches for the metal table and Bucky sees that his skin is starting to look a little greenish. The metal distorts under his hand.

            This sobers them all.

            "Let's just all take a deep breath," Steve says. And then, to Bruce: "What's going on." A statement, a calm statement.

            "Encephalitis," Bruce says, and it's a mouthful that Steve doesn't understand. "Brought on or worsened by the technique..."

            "Speak English," Steve orders.

            "His memories..." Bruce trails off, and after a moment goes to consult the machines. "He's losing control. His brain is literally re-creating the memories. He's not just remembering these moments... he's reliving them."

            Bucky sees the whole world go black; he can tell his eyes are rolling into the back of his skull and he only comes to when he feels a sharp slap across his face. Was that Steve?

            "What can we do?" Steve presses.

            "Nothing," Tony growls.

            "Tony!" Bruce sounds alarmed.

            "What?" Steve asks.

            "He deserves to die. And dying from these memories..." Tony's voice is harsh. "It's very apropos. Divine justice. Isn't that what you stand for, Captain America?"

            Steve's face is all Bucky can see; he's leaning over him, eclipsing the rest of the world. He knows he can't hold onto consciousness much longer. His head is pounding and his vision is starting to go black around the edges.

            "Steve," he chokes out.

            "What do you want us to do?" Steve asks.

            "I—I don't want to hurt you," he finds himself saying. This relaxes him. The voice that's speaking, he knows that's Bucky Barnes. If he's going to die, at least he's going to die as himself.

            "No, Buck," Steve says, and Bucky feels both of Steve's hands on either side of his face.  His calm voice is breaking. He's begging, clinging to Bucky's face. To Bucky like he can make him stay.

            "How can we make you better?" Steve whimpers. "Tell me. Tell me what you want, what I can do."

            Bucky stares into those eyes and it's too much — he's seeing Steve, every Steve he's ever seen, ever loved. Staring into Steve's eyes at Coney Island, in London, on a train in the Alps, at a middle school dance, at a baseball game...

            And he can't see the real world, not anymore. For him, the memories are real. Loving Steve, every moment of loving him. It's all that's real.

            But he hears Bruce.

            "Steve... Steve, we have to wipe him. Right now."

            He hears the machine fire up, feels Steve's hands leave his face.

            This is his last chance, his last chance to say it. I love you, Steve Rogers. He wants to say it, but his body isn't working anymore and the energy is burning through his skull.

            And then, blackness.


	4. Endings

            There's a hand at his face, two fingers pressing under his chin. Taking his pulse. Does that mean he's alive?

            His eyes flutter open.

            "Do you know your name?" a voice asks. He blinks his eyes open and sees a worn face staring down at him, wire-frame glasses, curly hair.

            He thinks about the question and then shakes his head. A scary concept. A stranger just asked him if he knew his name, if he knew who he was, and he came up empty. This should be scary. He thinks about this, wondering if he's scared. When he's not sure, he listens and hears a beeping noise accelerating. HIs heart-beat, he figures, and it's rapid, erratic. So he is scared. He tries to move but he can't — something is holding him down. He glances down.

            "My-my arm?" he garbles out, and that makes it worse, because he doesn't recognize his own voice. No memories, no name, no concept of his own voice and for some reason it's most upsetting to see that he has a robotic arm where he should have a normal one.

            "Just give it a minute," the man says.

            The pressure still hasn't left his neck and he looks over to see who's been taking his pulse. His eyes sweep the room, a clinical, lab-type setting, with a repeated image of a bird in flight. Where is he?

            The man on his left is blond. Tall. Attractive.

            "Steve," he says.

            "Bucky!" the man says happily, and his voice just sounds right. He's sure this man is Steve. But aside from that...

            "Who the hell is Bucky?" he asks, his voice breaking. "A-and my arm?"

            "Give it a minute," the other man says again, and it takes him a realize that he's feeling frustrated. Frustrated that the man keeps saying this, like more time is going to fix things. But the attractive man, Steve, had an interesting clue.

            "Am I Bucky?" he asks.

            "Yes," Steve says with a smile.

            "Bucky..." he says the name again, trying it out. "Bucky..." His brow crinkles. It sounds wrong. "Bucky... Barnes?"

            Something's coming back, puzzle pieces falling into place. Like he's been asleep for a long while and the rest of his brain is coming back online, slower to defrost. That seems like the right word, defrost. He can't place why.

            Steve rewards him with a beautiful smile.

            "We know each other," Bucky says again, more sure of himself.

            "Yes," Steve says.

            "I... I had something to tell Steve... to tell... you," Bucky stutters out. This is important, he can remember that.

            "It's okay, Buck, it's okay."

            "I love you." The words leave his mouth and they sound unsure, so he says them again. "I love you, Steve Rogers."

            Steve stares at him, his eyes wide. Bucky stares at him, trying to place the emotion on his attractive face. Confused? Upset? Hopeful?

            "Dr. Banner?" Steve asks.

            "It's part of his programming," the other man — Dr. Banner — says. "It's just an echo, a side-effect, something gone wrong in the..."

            "No," Bucky insists. "I love him. And I... something about baseball?"

            He starts humming the song before he knows what he's doing. And he's laughing before he realizes that the noise is coming from him. It's such a rush of joy that he hardly realizes that everything seems fuzzy, faded, out of focus. That piecing together words is growing difficult and his eyelids don't want to stay open.

            "Wait," Bucky adds. It's difficult, focusing on all this. His brain feels so slow. Defrosting. That was the word. "Wait... I need to say something. Something about a line... I needed to tell you that I love you... and I will love you... until the end of the line."

            His eyes flutter and he feels himself drifting into blackness.

            "He's just falling asleep," he hears Dr. Banner promise Steve. "Let him... he's had a long day."

 

*          *          *

 

            He wakes to the sunshine, which is always nice. And in a moment, he knows who he is, more or less: he's James Buchanan Barnes. He's in love with Steve Rogers. They grew up together in the 1940s. And then, not much else. He remembers some snippets but he knows that isn't important. Steve, that's all that's important. He needs to be with Steve no matter what. A voice that says, _you need to be with Steve. Stay with him, stay with him no matter what. Keep Steve Rogers in your life at all costs. Love him. He is all you need._

            He rolls over, enjoying this feeling, but there's someone there.

            "Hey," comes Steve's sleepy voice. "Hope you don't mind... we did this when we were kids..."

            "Pushed the couch-cushions together," Bucky finds himself saying. "Yeah."

            He's lying on his pillow staring into Steve's eyes. There's a long pause.

            "So I think I'm remembering," Bucky tries.

            "Seems so," Steve says.

            Neither of them want to speak, but Bucky knows he has to.

            "It's not all back..." he tells Steve, almost embarrassed. "So..."

            They stare at each other, Bucky marveling at Steve's ridiculous _face_ , at his lips and his...

            "Stupid cheekbones," he mutters aloud.

            "What?" Steve asks.

            Bucky feels himself flushing and wonders if he's the sort of man to blush frequently, and if he should be embarrassed to be blushing and...

            "You're sort of beautiful," he says, by way of explanation. Should he have lied about this? Should he not be telling Steve everything?

            Steve's face seems to fall and Bucky finds himself worrying, worrying that he shouldn't have been so honest, shouldn't have trusted Steve so much, shouldn't have allowed himself to open his stupid mouth.

            "Dr. Banner thinks your programming is what's making you say you love me," Steve says, finally.

            "I was... programmed?" The word tastes funny in his mouth.

            Steve sighs.

            "It doesn't matter," Bucky insists. "I don't know much. Hell, I don't even know my name that well. But I know... I know I love you. Is that crazy?"

            He finally dares to glance back at Steve and is rewarded by a full grin.

            "You know what I know?" Steve asks.

            "What?"

            "I don't know anything about technology or computers or electricity, and I'm not a doctor. But what I know is... you... you can't program love," Steve finally says.

            "There's something else I know," Bucky adds.

            "What?"

            "You look insanely beautiful in the morning."

            Steve blushes. "Do I?"

            And he doesn't look like he minds blushing, like it's okay, like he's glad to be lying next to him in bed with the early morning sun tracing shadows onto his perfect face.

            "You do," Bucky promises. He reaches out to touch Steve's face, needing to reassure himself that he's real. And his fingertips aren't enough. He leans forward and presses his lips to Steve's cheekbone.

            "What was that?" Steve asks with a husky laugh.

            "Sorry... that was weird," Bucky says. "I guess I'm still figuring myself out..."

            "Maybe..."

            "What?"

            "Well..." Now Steve seems shy. "Dr. Banner said that whatever serum HYDRA gave you, it's helping you get your memories back. So every night, your brain sort of takes time to heal itself, and you'll wake up with more memories."

            "Okay," Bucky says, to show that he's followed, although he's not quite sure what a HYDRA is.

            "Well..." Steve says agin, "maybe it's like in the fairytales."He boosts himself up onto one elbow and stares at Bucky. Bucky bites his lip, fighting a weird impulse to insult him, to call him a jerk or an idiot or a punk.

            So instead he repeats: "A fairytale?"

            "Yeah," Steve says. "A first kiss?"

            "True love's kiss and all my memories will come back?" Bucky supplies, and he finds himself grinning at the idea.

            "Yeah," Steve says with a smile.

            "Well... I certainly wouldn't mind trying, if that's what you're asking." His voice is dry. It makes Steve smile.

            "I wouldn't mind, either," Steve says. "I mean, I think it's at least worth an attempt."

            And with that, he leans forward and presses his lips to Bucky's.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, inspired by my beautiful muse who sends me ideas, headcanons, and terribly heart-wrenching scenes.


End file.
